Alone (Detective D.D. Warren, #1)(62)

But then, all of a sudden, he did remember something. “What's the most common kind of call for a team like yours? Bank robberies, hostage situations, escaped felons?”

“Nah. Around here it's mostly domestics. Drunk guy gets all pissed off and starts threatening his own family.”

“And that's a SWAT call?”

“If the guy is armed, you bet it is. It's called a domestic barricade, where the family members are considered hostages. We take those calls very seriously, especially if there are reports of shots fired.”

It had been a Mardi Gras party, with all the symphony patrons floating around in elaborately feathered masks. Jimmy and Catherine Gagnon had stopped by to congratulate Susan on her performance. Catherine had had her black hair piled on top of her head and was wearing a formfitting gold dress and exotic peacock mask. At first glance, Bobby had been aware of a certain visceral-level response to the stunning costume. Then he'd been too busy watching Jimmy devour Susan with his eyes to pay Catherine much attention.

He'd ended up breaking off the conversation abruptly, leading Susan away with some flimsy excuse or another. Later, they'd shaken their heads at Jimmy's obvious display, feeling that vague sense of moral superiority one couple gets when they meet another couple who is obviously more glamorous, more successful, and more f*cked up.

Bobby hung his head. Ah shit, he did not want to remember this now.

“We're going to get her,” Copley repeated. “And you know Catherine's not the kind of woman to take the fall. First sign of real danger, and she's going to cry me a river. You don't want to get caught in that deluge, Officer Dodge.”

“Got a deadline?” Bobby shot back, stung. “Let me guess. It's tomorrow by five.”

Copley scowled at him. “Now that you mention it—”

“Yeah, well, there we go. Tomorrow it is. I'll give you a call.” Bobby gestured them up, off his dilapidated sofa and out his front door. D.D. was regarding him strangely. He wouldn't look her in the eye.

“One last thing,” Copley said, halting in the door frame. “Where were you last night, between ten p.m. and one a.m.?”

“I was killing Tony Rocco, of course.”

“What—”

“I was sleeping, you piece of shit. But thanks for insulting me in my own home. Get out.”

Copley was still in the doorway. “This is serious business—”

“This is my life,” Bobby said and slammed the door.





R OBINSON MADE THE mistake of answering the phone. Not a good thing these days. Now Robinson had to deal with the caller, and the caller was not happy.

“His instructions were to make it look like an accident or, at the very least, random bad luck—say a carjacking. Carving someone up with a butcher knife does not appear accidental!”

“I told you I couldn't control him.”

“The police are crawling all over this. That's going to make things a goddamn mess.”

“I don't think he's worried.”

“Why? Because he's the world famous ‘Mr. Bosu'? What the hell does that mean?”

“It's a piece of exercise equipment.”

“What?”

“Both Sides Up ball,” Robinson supplied. “BOSU ball. It's flat on one side, domed on the other. You balance on it to do squats, or place the domed side down for push-ups. Makes for a good workout inside a confined area.”

“You're telling me I've hired a man who thinks he's a piece of exercise equipment?”

Robinson said seriously, “I'm telling you you've hired a man who doesn't mind pain.”

The caller was silent for a moment. So was Robinson.

“Is he prepared for the next assignment?” the caller asked finally.

“Working on it now. Of course, there's been a minor wrinkle.” Robinson spoke carefully.

“Minor wrinkle?”

“Mr. Bosu has some new terms: Instead of ten thousand dollars for the new job, he expects thirty.”

The caller actually laughed. “He does, does he? The man just f*cked up his very first assignment.”

“I don't think he sees it that way.”

“Did he at least open a bank account?”

“Mmm, no.”

“No?”

“Mmm, he prefers cash.”

“Oh, for the love of God. You tell Se?or Psycho a few things for me. One, I don't have that kind of cash lying around. Two, he'll get ten thousand dollars and not a penny more. Frankly, he should be happy I'm willing to pay that much, given that we both know I'm only asking him to do something he already wants to do.”

“I don't think he's into negotiation.”

“Life is negotiation.”

Robinson took a deep breath. No way around it now. “Mr. Bosu sent a note. It says if you want results, it will cost you thirty grand. It says if you don't want results, it will still cost you thirty grand. It says Mr. Bosu knows where you live.”

“What? You haven't told him anything, have you? I thought you picked him up in a rental car, gave him a stolen cell phone. There should be no way for him to trace—”

“I think he's bluffing. But I can't be positive. I have my contacts. Maybe he has his.”